


Fearful Odds

by Gloomier



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Allusions to Past Relationship, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Banishment, Dwarves are Not Nice, Except the Company, Gold Sick Thorin, Kidnapping, M/M, Malnutrition, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Canon Compliant, Not Happy, Past Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Prisoner Neglect, Unrequited Love, hopelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-13 23:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7141796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloomier/pseuds/Gloomier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some who would see Bilbo Baggins suffer for stealing from the King Under the Mountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fearful Odds

**Author's Note:**

> If the tags were not clear enough, THIS IS NOT A HAPPY STORY.
> 
> This is a single interpretation of an AU where nobody wins and everyone loses. Somewhere in other AUs far far away Thorin and Bilbo are happy husbands, lavishing in each others company, but that is not this story.
> 
> Many thank-yous to [Airebellah](http://airebellah.tumblr.com/) who deals with my angst twists and turns on a near daily basis. 
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/)

Stealing the Arkenstone and bartering for peace should have solved many problems. But when the fighting stopped and the dust settled Bilbo came to find that nothing had been accomplished – save for the spilling of an unconscionable amount of blood.

Thorin and his nephews were all gravely wounded but not terribly enough to prevent Óin from pulling all three from the brink of death. Despite lying half dead in a shoddy tent Thorin remained deeply ensnared by his madness, much to Bilbo's worry and aggravation. The King Under the Mountain had been lucid enough to call Bilbo to his bedside, if only to ensure the traitor hobbit never set one hairy foot in or around Erebor ever again or Thorin would take great pleasure in carrying out the execution himself; the threat also implicitly included the areas of Dale and Esgaroth.

Afterward Bilbo reassured himself that his tears were ones of frustration caused by the stubbornness of dwarves and _not_ the love and friendships lost. The journey home had been swift as Bilbo did not wish to tempt fate further; he wouldn't put it past Thorin to execute him for _conspiring with elves_ or some silly nonsense.

Days blurred together, and though Bilbo was happy to finally be home he couldn't seem to escape the past. Many dwarves that passed through the Shire, primarily traveling from the Blue Mountains, gave _all_ hobbits nasty looks as they gossiped about the traitor of Erebor. Lobelia saw fit to rile Bilbo up every time another group of dwarves came around. Bilbo never heard word from any of his former dwarf friends, which he half-expected to happen anyway.

It had been a hot summer evening when the intruders came; four burly dwarves shoved their way into Bilbo's smial, weapons drawn and looking to kill the traitor. At least, that's what Bilbo assumed was happening until he found himself overwhelmed without escape and his handy little trinket useless, buried at the bottom of the drawer of his bedside table.

The last thing Bilbo remembered before blacking out was his hands being bound and a bag being forced over his head.Waking up after the attack had been both frightening and disorienting. In his panic, Bilbo fell off the pony he'd been placed on and his arse became bruised from the experience.

His captors never spoke to him directly, only growling in Khuzdul or manhandling him as they wished, sometimes giving him a hard kick or a sharp elbow if Bilbo didn't comply quick enough.

The bag over his head had only been  removed when he and the dwarves stopped for the evening and just long enough for dirty water and stale bread to be forced into his mouth; never filling but enough to keep him alive for whatever they had planned.

Bilbo’s perception of time had been ruined, slipping through his fingers like sand and soon he lost track of the days, weeks, and months. The bag was absolutely demoralizing and for a while he had thought he would never see outside of his suffocating prison. Eventually though, his bindings were cut and the bag yanked harshly off his head. The sun was achingly bright to Bilbo’s now sensitive eyes and he tried his best to focus on the change of scenery. The sight before Bilbo caused him to drop to his knees and retch the contents of his stomach upon the ground.

They had brought him back; he had been kidnapped from the Shire and brought all the way back to the Lonely Mountain.

Bilbo was not foolish enough to return of his own volition, but there were dwarves angry enough at his transgressions to bring him back and force Thorin's hand.

His chance to escape was well within his grasp, yet Bilbo lacked the strength to lift himself up off the ground. He was not too weak, however, to blubber like a scared faunt, begging and sobbing for his captors to take him home, or even just to Mirkwood. The dwarves cackled and howled at Bilbo's desperate pleas as they walked away, leaving him to his fate in the middle of the road between Dale and Erebor where he'd be easily spotted.

There was little else for Bilbo to do and so he curled himself up in the dirt, knees tucked securely against his chest as he stared aimlessly into the distance, gazing upon the looming gates of his inevitable doom.

It's hours before someone finally took notice of him; a patrol setting out from Erebor had spotted him on the road as they departed. Bilbo was delirious from sleep deprivation and near starvation; his kidnappers had lessened his already considerably pathetic supper, and they'd not even given him a sip of water for longer than a day.

He could not comprehend anything the new dwarves said, but he knew it wasn’t anything good when ' _hobbit_ ' was growled, the name practically spat. They roughly pulled at the fur on his feet, making him whimper in pain. Their treatment wasn't much better than his previous traveling companions’. Bilbo was violently hefted upon on an armored shoulder like a sack of potatoes, though he was thankful they didn’t make him walk – he wasn't so sure his wet noodle of a body could have made it to their destination.

 

*

 

He did not remember falling unconscious but he awoke in a rickety, smelly cot bathed in utter darkness. The steady dripping of water echoing ominously returned Bilbo to one of his more pervasive nightmares, one of many events that had given him cause to fear the dark and the creatures that dwell in its cover. He expected to hear the raspy ' _Gollum, Gollum, Gollum_ ' and the mad screeching of ' _thief,_ ' or even the sultry hiss of ' _my precious_ ' but they never came and the dripping never stopped.

For a long time Bilbo could not find sleep though his body yearned for it; ignoring the desperate rumbling of his belly had become less strenuous and the vicious hunger pangs were no longer debilitating; he'd simply gotten used to the way his mouth felt like it’d been stuffed full of sheep’s wool.

Eventually the blackness  receded and the thud of boots meeting stone echoed now, drowning out the incessant dripping of water that was slowly driving him to his own madness. The bright light of a lantern down the hall gave Bilbo a chance to study his surroundings; he had been thrown in a tiny cell somewhere in the depths of Erebor – _probably_. The bars were thick, rusted and far too close together to even consider squeezing out lest he get stuck – not that he could actually pull himself out of the cot to begin with. The floor glistened with dampness and the walls were covered in nasty-looking cave mildew; indeed he was very far down in the mountain then if the dwarves did not care to clean these pitiful dungeons.

The lantern's light became a nuisance and Bilbo could not hope to keep his eyes open after such a long time in the darkness. He wished he'd kept them shut as the grim visage as Thorin came into view, trailed by a guard holding the light. There was silence for several unbearable minutes before the King Under the Mountain opened his royal mouth.

“Did I not warn you that the next time you stepped foot anywhere near Erebor that you would be killed?” Thorin asked in a cold tone, scrutinizing Bilbo with a cruel stare.

Bilbo's chest tightened painfully as the memory was dragged out from the fathomless nightmarish chasm of his thoughts; the words were slow to come to him and the dwarf grew impatient.

“Well? What say you, _traitor_?” Thorin growled out, his face twisting into a dangerous sneer.

“I-I did not come of my own volition; I was kidnapped and left on your doorstep, O King,” Bilbo croaked.

The defiance in his words alone set off Thorin like one of Gandalf's fireworks and the King threw his body against Bilbo's cell, clenching the rusted bars tightly between his thick hands.

“You're  _lying_! Your belongings were not far from where the patrol found you! Did you not steal enough the first time around, Burglar!” The King thundered, his resentful words echoing through the prison.

Bilbo had not only been hobbit-napped, but set up as well – not that Thorin would have cared, with or without the evidence against him.

“Despite what you think, _Your Majesty_ , I have a rather healthy sense of self-preservation. I would not have come back for all the gold in your treasury nor the cursed stone upon your throne,” Bilbo rebuked.

He was rather proud when Thorin swiftly and silently left the way he came, plunging the cell once more into bleak darkness.

 

*

 

Two days passed sluggishly; Bilbo knew the passage of time only because a guard came three times a day to give him his bland meals and take his empty dishes. The third day, around the time for Bilbo's second meal, a different dwarf showed up. It was not the guard that usually brought his meals; this dwarf was taller and more broad with a heavier gait – practically stomping down the corridor –  their armor skewing any proper observation.

Bilbo knew that his curiosity in the roster change was borne purely out of the sheer monotony of his prison stay, but he watched the dwarf regardless as they bent down to shove the little food-laden metal tray through a horizontal slot in the bars at ground level.

The past two days ran like clockwork; the guard would come uttering not a word, shove the tray through the slot and pick up the empty tray from the previous meal then leave, and Bilbo would suffer another breakfast, lunch, or supper (usually stale bread, a cup of water and whatever days old leftovers could be scrounged up) in silence. But instead of picking the tray up the dwarf righted himself and shuffled closer to the end of the cell where Bilbo sat on his cot.

“Hobbit,” the dwarf said gruffly.

“Yes?” Bilbo answered with uncertainty. He recognized the voice, but it's impossible to place it as he'd not had _real_ contact with any dwarf for a few years.

“You shouldn't have come back,” the dwarf pointed out mildly as they went to remove their full-faced helmet.

“I-I didn't– _Dwalin_ ,” Bilbo stuttered. “I didn't return by choice, surely Thorin has been ranting and raving about my supposed _lie_?”

“Aye. We assumed that you came back to try save ‘im,” Dwalin grunted.

Bilbo would have tried had Thorin not burnt bridges and threatened to kill him on sight. He had loved the dwarf once, still cared for him to some degree even now, but Bilbo could not have risked his life just to give Thorin clarity.

“It would have been a fool's venture,” Bilbo firmly declared. “I was taken against my will – from my own home even! I tried to save him once, and look where _that_ got us.”

Dwalin watched him for a long moment with a clever eye, making Bilbo fidget nervously.

“Nori said as much, but I had to find out for myself. He has proof but Thorin won't hear a word of reason; those dwarfs that brought you here are in the pockets of the same dwarves of Thorin's council. They're trying to move your execution up,” Dwalin said bluntly.

The dwarf’s transparency was quite welcome but Dwalin's news was nothing that Bilbo wasn't already expecting, though Bilbo was still a bit surprised that he was left alive – execution pending.

“I appreciate you telling me, but at the end of the day what's done is _done_ ,” Bilbo remarked bitterly. He stretched himself out on his cot and rolled to his side facing the wall; Bilbo no longer had the stomach for conversation.

“Thorin might be mad, but the rest of us aren't,” Dwalin muttered before stomping away.

 

*

 

Since the evening Dwalin came to visit Bilbo's cell the quality of his meals had improved drastically; they'd even give him a cup of decent ale to go with supper. A full week had passed while he remained in a cell and though his food was far better than anything that he had had in the weeks prior, it couldn't help him escape.

In the four day span after Dwalin's visit, Nori had come to see him as well.

Bilbo had learned that the dwarves who had paid a hefty sum to have him brought back to Erebor would not allow Thorin to go easy on a traitor, even one who had helped retake their once-lost kingdom. The stubbornness of a prideful dwarf, an entire _room_ full of prideful dwarfs, would always astound him.

He didn't know what to say when Nori proposed a plan to help him escape. The words that came to mind were _dangerous_ and _foolish_ ; if Thorin caught any one of the company helping Bilbo, even Dwalin, the King's childhood friend and shield-brother, they would likely all be blamed for colluding with a known traitor and summarily executed right along with him.

“I cannot, in good conscience, ask you to risk your lives for me,” Bilbo objected, throat constricting with emotion.

“Who said we're doing it for you?” Nori grinned.

 

*

 

The following week Nori spends hours teaching Bilbo how to pick the lock of his cell; the dungeon he'd been thrown in was not used regularly and the locks were flawed, making it easy for any clever prisoner to escape. Thorin wanted Bilbo isolated and thus the old cell block had been once more put to use without a second thought.

Bombur, Bilbo learned, was now in charge of the meals and he made sure they were hearty enough to aid him in regaining his strength to the escape. None of the company would actually be able to physically help him out of the cell and up the many staircases – they had to keep Thorin from catching on. Special arrangements were been made for a ‘ _distraction_ ’ _;_ Bilbo did not want to know what that entailed.

Picking the lock was a cakewalk now and Bilbo was finally able to keep down double helpings at each meal.

 

*

 

Bilbo's chest heaved as he laboriously sucked in lungfuls of air. His arm ached; Orcrist was a fearsome blade indeed but Bilbo somehow managed to escape with just a cut. It would heal. He was close now to the meetup point, a gate not dissimilar to the one Smaug had destroyed but on the North-Western side of the mountain. He could still hear Thorin's enraged roaring and the thud of his boots as he ran.

“Show yourself, Burglar!”

Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, shuffling quietly in his little alcove. He wished for his ring right about now, though it was likely stolen or confiscated long ago.

By some divine intervention Thorin did not find him and Bilbo waited a while longer before he peered out of his hiding place and darted off to the meeting spot.

 

*

 

His elvish escort left him at the border of the Shire as per his request. A strong bout of déjà vu overcame him and all Bilbo could hope was he would never have to relive this moment again. The first time was heart-breaking enough but the second time was soul-crushingly painful.

Bilbo had been dreading this homecoming since successfully fleeing from Erebor; he often wondered how his dwarves managed to get Bard and Thranduil to aid them – he just hoped that they were all alive and in one piece.

It was a stupid and dangerous move to travel during winter, but his brief stays in the human settlements around the Misty Mountains were not so unpleasant, though the trek had been slow and grueling.

Hobbiton hadn't changed much since his unplanned departure until the hill where Bag End resided came into view. The tree atop of the hill was dead; it was well into spring and not a single leaf had grown on any limb. The front garden was overcome with weeds, choking everything else; the glass in the windows was shattered, shards scattered everywhere; the door was scorched and warped, half falling off its rusted hinges. The inside fared no better.

His home was destroyed and with it all of Bilbo’s remaining happy memories; the ruination was a testament to his life.

Bilbo quietly picked his way through the destroyed smial, nudging around burnt rubbish with his ash covered toes as he investigated, hoping to find something worth pulling from the wreckage. It's slow going as he took his time moving from room to room, tears streaked through the dirt on his face as he recognized broken pieces of his past, from a better time.

He saved his room for last; the most memories lost were there. Returning home after the quest, Bilbo had moved his mother's glory box into the closet along with a few of his father's belongings for safekeeping. None of it survived. The wrought iron skeleton of the bed frame leaned precariously in funny angles, the wardrobe was all but a shell and the beside table...

Bilbo knelt, carefully brushing away the piles of ash where bedside table once stood.

Of all the things to survive the burning of his home, he did not expect this little thing, his _precious_ ring, to survive. He pinched it between his fingers, staring at it with wonder; it gleamed like it had been dutifully polished all these months – the heat of the fire had not marred its sleek form.

_Despite the absurdity of the events that peppered the hobbit's life things would be okay_  – Bilbo was inclined to believe the comforting whisper.


End file.
